I am still here, though already gone.
The room holds my outline.
The air remembers my breath.
Thought dissolves me by degrees.
Until my feet touch the ground,
I am only the idea of myself.
—
You taught me warmth as obedience,
a wage, a lock that turned.
Comfort became the softest form of control.
I mistook sedation for peace.
Now I leave the padded cage,
the hum of systems that cradle and dull.
—
I carry little more than a pulse
and a plane ticket into another alphabet.
I do not yet speak the words
for hunger or belonging.
I issue no accords
until I’ve lived the weather.
—
My love,
freedom without care is cruelty.
I carry you like a compass
inside my ribcage —
your voice the still point
where my chaos steadies.
If I vanish,
it will be responsibly.
—
Ten degrees cooler.
The air wakes me.
Warsaw is gray and vast and listening.
I breathe — and thought becomes weight.
I am tangible again,
a soul made of temperature and concrete.
—
I have begun.
What remains is not an answer,
but a presence.
I do not seek comfort,
only balance —
the pulse between motion and stillness,
between freedom and care.
In this colder air,
I begin.